Autumn Leaves
by Never Stop Believing in Love
Summary: The long hot summer has ended but for Grace autumn brings with it an unexpected chill. Warning - this is not full of festive cheer.


**Disclaimer: I do not own the copyright for Waking the dead or its characters – all rights belong to the BBC**

**Content: Boyd and Grace **

**Rating: K**

**I should probably warn you that this is not full of festive cheer. Thanks for taking the time to read. **

**Especially for the OHT *Hugs***

**Autumn Leaves**

The cool breeze bit into her skin encouraging her to secure the woollen scarf draped around her neck a little tighter. The leaves on the trees had already turned from green to vibrant red and gold as autumn displaced the warmth of the long summer evenings. Grace sighed forlornly. Everything had changed along with the turning of the leaves. Everything had become so much… colder. She closed her eyes softly, blocking out the last of the dying light while pushing back the tears that threatened to fall. Her mind journeyed the now familiar path to just a few weeks previous when the evenings had been long and warm and the wine had flowed. Her life had looked so very different in the heat of the summer sun.

They'd warned her, her friends. They had loyally told her that he would break her heart. She knew what they were all thinking. Knew how they felt_. 'Foolish, foolish old woman'._ And they were right, ultimately. But she would never – could never – regret those balmy evenings spent solely in his company when the world round them had simply dissolved leaving them in a haze of giddy contentment.

She could still feel his breath warm on her neck as he leaned in to talk to her. His deep timbre whispering gentle words that were just as intoxicating as the alcohol they consumed. He was mellow. He was tender. He was a contradiction of everything the world expected him to be. They would sit for hours in the beer garden of their favourite pub looking out across the river as they enjoyed the late evening sun and each other. They talked. They laughed. They sat in comfortable silence just happy to gaze out at the light as it softly dwindled over the water. When they did eventually venture home, they did so hand in hand, like young lovers, defying anyone to comment on the appropriateness of age. She liked it when he took her hand. The newness of his skin against hers still felt illicit. She liked how he automatically reached for her, interlocking his fingers securely through hers with a silent but reassuring squeeze. Demanding yet gentle. It was his statement to the world. _'She's with me,'_ it silently said and Grace loved it. He made her feel safe. Protected.

It felt right, being with him. Their relationship had evolved over the years until it finally reached the pinnacle just under twelve months ago. They knew if they continued they could never go back, but neither of them thought much about the consequences, their desire for each other dominating every thought, every step. It had amazed Grace at first how quickly they'd fallen in love, though that thought was only transient. She'd known that if they both were truly honest with themselves they'd easily confess that they had been steadily falling in love throughout the previous ten years. But it was how seamlessly they transitioned from colleagues to lovers that astounded her most. He was everything she had imagined, and more. Her friends, only seeing the outwardly gruff exterior that he so often shrouded himself in, couldn't understand what she saw in him, but they didn't know him. No-one knew him, not like she did.

He was fierce. He was protective. Heat and thunder, smouldering so unpredictably, waiting to erupt. He would fight doggedly for what he believed to be right and move heaven and hell trying to achieve it. To many he was arrogant, rude, most definitely bad tempered, and a massive risk for Grace to take. But she had seen beneath his guarded exterior to the soul who could love and be loved.

His lips were gentle as they sought hers. They told her everything he couldn't say with words. Words were her thing, not his, but she had never doubted how he felt about her. He was consuming. He was loving and giving – and he was hers. He'd all but moved into her house from that first weekend they had spent together, neither of them seeing the merit of spending their nights alone or sleeping in an empty bed across the river from the other. They didn't talk about it; his shirts just began to appear in her wardrobe. Not that she ever complained. His presence in her home was welcome and strangely familiar.

As happy as she had been, Grace had always suspected her friends were right. Deep down she'd always innately known that he would eventually break her heart. It was what he did and she would be no different. But not like this. Never like this. When he'd left her bed, he had promised that he'd return. Full of apologies for being called into work on a Saturday morning and disturbing her so early, he promised to make it up to her with a stroll along the river and dinner in the expensive little Italian place she loved so much. He'd reached across and kissed her softly, urging her to go back to sleep and assuring her that he would call her when he had finished. There had been nothing in his manner that made her doubt him, not once. When she did answer the telephone that afternoon, she did so with the happy expectation of hearing his voice, but instead it was Spence. And instinctively she'd known.

The stupid, stupid obstinate man. Always believing he was completely indestructible. Always believing he could – and would – walk away from anything. But underneath his imposing bullish frame and brave facade it turned out that he was every bit as vulnerable as the next man.

Bullets are no respecter of persons. They don't care about bravado, or justice. They don't give a damn about promises lovingly made in the morning, or dinner reservations that are looked forward to. They don't care about broken hearts. No, bullets… bullets just rip a hole straight through you and through those who love you.

Spence had assured her that it was instantaneous. One clean shot. An execution. _His_ execution. He didn't feel pain, didn't suffer. Grace, however, suffered every single day since. She loved him. And he broke her heart by leaving that afternoon. As the summer ebbed away and autumn stole the warmth from its skies, everything changed.

She often wondered if he'd known; if some innate sixth sense had kicked in and warned him that they were his final moments. He'd been a very competent detective and his instincts had rarely been wrong. Had he known how very bad the situation had turned? Her mind constantly turned chaotic circles as relentlessly she drove herself insane imagining how he'd felt, wondering what he'd thought about as the final moments of his life had slipped away – had any of his thoughts been of her? Had he even had time for her image to flash ephemerally through his mind? Had he known how much she would miss him – that he was loved?

Grace wished to God she'd been with him; at least then she could have held him and felt his final breaths as they seeped from him into the eternal ether. Her final memories wouldn't be how very cold he was under her touch when she'd reached into his open casket to run her palm across his face one last time. She shuddered; her blood ran cold at the vivid memory. If she'd just been there she could have kissed him one last time while his lips were still moist and warm. He would have known unreservedly that he was loved. That _she_ loved him. She would have begged him not to leave her. Not the way he had. Not ever.

The compound where they both had worked was infused with the essence of him. His presence dripped from every fixture and his voice echoed hauntingly through the walls taunting her with how uncharacteristically silent it was there now. The surroundings suffocated her to the point her chest felt crushed under the immense weight of his loss and stole all remaining breath away from her. She didn't want to be at work, yet couldn't bear to be in her home. His clothes still hung in her wardrobe, his toiletries were still lined neatly in her en-suite bathroom just as he left them. Sometimes she dabbed a little of his aftershave onto a pillow and held it close to her face. Slowly she'd breathe in his scent allowing her tears to flow freely until eventually exhaustion overtook her and she drifted into fitful sleep…

…Most of her time, however, she spends sitting here, on an old wooden bench, close to where he is buried. It's peaceful. It's benign. She feels close to him without his things surrounding her dragging with them painful memories. Sometimes she speaks to him, but mostly she just sits silently, alone with her thoughts.

It's hard to escape. So many things remind her of him. He's everywhere. It's comforting. It's agony. _"He'll break your heart"_, they'd said. And he has, in the cruellest of ways. He's left her with no redress and she is helpless. Helpless and completely alone. When he'd smiled apologetically that fateful morning she couldn't have imagined that it would be the last time they would be together. The last time she would feel his lips trace against hers or his touch on her skin. There were so many things she would have told him, had she known. How happy he made her. How accepted and loved she felt. Now her whispers go unanswered in the autumn air, merging seamlessly with the tears that never seem to be far away.

The light begins to falter as dusk arrives to paint the sky with darker hues. She sighs, swallowing down the dread that steadily rises within her at the thought of returning to her lonely, empty home. She never fully understood loneliness until he was no longer there, now it embraces her like an unwanted relative. Rising slowly from the bench that has become her loyal companion she turns and walks the short distance to his graveside. Gingerly she stoops down and lightly rests her hand on the simple black marble headstone that bears his name. To the world it says nothing of the man who lies beneath the soil, the man she loved unconditionally. But to those who knew him the deeply engraved surname conjures up a thousand memories, each one as powerful as the man himself. This one name invokes opinion – good, bad but never indifferent. You loved him. You hated him. But he made damn sure you felt _something_ in his presence.

To the world it may only be an anonymous name marking the final resting place of an unknown man. But to her this one name will eternally linger on her lips, causing her heart to sing and break in equal measure. One name. One man. But always… _Boyd_.


End file.
